girl had raised her head, grey eyes sweeping Marie-Louise with well
bred indifference--and Jean was staring at her.

"_Bon jour, m'sieu_!"--he spoke mechanically, lifted his cap
mechanically.

His eyes had not left the girl's face. He could not take his eyes from
her face. It was a wonderful face, a beautiful face, and something in
it thrilled him and bade him feast his eyes upon it to drink in its
beauty. And, his head thrown back exposing the bare rugged neck, the
broad, sturdy shoulders unconsciously squared a little, the fine, dark
eyes wide with admiration and a strange, keen appraisement, the
splendid physique, the strength, the power and vigour of young manhood
outstanding in face and form, he gazed at her. And her eyes, from
Marie-Louise, met his, and from them faded their expression of
indifference, and into them came something Jean could not define, only
that as the blood rushed suddenly unbidden to his face and he felt it
hot upon his cheeks, he saw the colour ebb from hers to a queer
whiteness--and then her hat hid her face again--and he had passed by.

It was as though his veins were running fire. He glanced at
Marie-Louise. Shyly diffident in the presence of strangers, her head
was lowered. She had seen nothing. Seen nothing! Seen what? He did
not know. His blood was tingling, his brain was confusion.

He walked on, hurrying unconsciously.

It was Marie-Louise who spoke.

"They are of the _grand monde_," she said in a sort of wondering
excitement, when they were out of ear-shot.

"Yes," said Jean absently.

"And English or American."

"Yes," said Jean.

"But the rich people do not come to Bernay-sur-Mer where there is no
amusement for them," she submitted with a puzzled air. "I wonder what
they are going to do here?"

Jean's eyes were on the road. He did not raise them.

"Who knows!" said Jean Laparde.

-- IV --

STRANGERS WITHIN THE GATES

"Until to-morrow"--the words kept echoing in Jean's ears, as he hurried
now on his way back to the Bas Rhone. "Until to-morrow"--Marie-Louise
had called to him, as he had left the house on the bluff after taking
her home. Well, what was there unusual in that! Though he went often,
he did not go to see Marie-Louise every evening, and it was not the
first time she had ever said it. Why should he be vaguely conscious of
a sort of relief that she had said "until to-morrow" on this particular
occasion? It was a very strange way to